


Despair and Hope

by Placebo_gazebo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, I'm not sure yet, If you squint you can see some fluff, Obsession, There may be some light smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-01-06 12:45:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18388700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Placebo_gazebo/pseuds/Placebo_gazebo
Summary: Hermione, Harry and Ron are caught by Scabior and his band of snatchers. Only the events unfold a bit differently this time.Harry came up behind her then. “Snatchers? Good to know your enchantments work.”“H-he could smell it. My perfume.” Her voice broke a little as she spoke, uneven and quivering slightly as her body attempted to readjust after the burst of fear induced adrenaline. The two of them turned to go back to the tent. She stopped half-way as Harry plodded on ahead, turning to look back in the direction the snatchers had gone, though now she could see no sign of them.Scabior, she mouthed silently. She shuddered again.





	1. Between the Frying Pan and the Fire

Hermione was talented. She was knowledgeable. She was logical and careful. She thought things through. These were traits she was notorious for, things she understood as irrevocably true of herself. So why, why,  _ why _ had her protection charm failed to mask her perfume? These thoughts raced at a maddening pace through her mind, in obnoxious repetition as the seconds slid past at a snail's pace. The snatchers had been about to pass by when one of them caught a whiff of her perfume.

_ This damned flowery perfume _ .

His dark, restless eyes searched the clearing, roving over her with blind curiosity, his gaze calm, almost nonchalant, and yet there was something frighteningly intense burning underneath. His nostrils flared ever so delicately as he sniffed the air.

“Let's go Scabior,” his companion barked.

Hermione had immediately recognized the infamous werewolf.  _ Fenrir Greyback _ . A shudder crept down her spine, body tingling with fear. But then suddenly they were moving away again, spiriting their quarry off to meet some unfortunate fate. Releasing her breath Hermione felt some small measure of tension leave her body.

_ Safe. _

_ For now. _

Harry came up behind her then. “Snatchers? Good to know your enchantments work.”

“H-he could smell it. My perfume.” Her voice broke a little as she spoke, uneven and quivering slightly as her body attempted to readjust after the burst of fear-induced adrenaline. The two of them turned to go back to the tent. She stopped half-way as Harry plodded on ahead, turning to look back in the direction the snatchers had gone, though now she could see no sign of them.

_ Scabior  _ , she mouthed silently.

She shuddered again.

\---

The confrontation with Xenophilius Lovegood left Hermione feeling used and disheartened. As if she wasn't already disheartened enough. But that was the way the world was now.

_ For now _ , she reminded herself. And anyway, Xenophilius had betrayed them only because he was so mad with worry and grief for the kidnapping of his daughter. Somehow that thought didn't really comfort Hermione. Not much did, these days.

Ron offered to do the shielding enchantments around the camp. Hermione may have, on a more regular occasion, done them herself just to be safe but at the moment she didn't have the strength to bother interjecting. And anyway, they'd only just got Ron back. She had no desire to risk offending him. Instead, she prepared to set up the tent. Then something caught her attention. A slight prick of a sound tickling her ear, a quiet crunching of leaves just ahead. Heart freezing over in nerve-tingling terror she snapped her head up towards the sound.

_ Oh Merlin . Oh no . _

“Hello, beautiful.”

_ The snatchers. _

_ Scabior. _

Instinct overtook her, all three of them; they tore through the forest and away from the snatchers at a reckless pace. The chase was on.

_ We can't let them catch us, can't let them get Harry, have to run, have to stay together… _

There were so many following behind. Before long both parties were hurling poorly aimed spells back and forth at one another. Sharp cracks of curses and hexes and bright bursts of multi-colored lights filled the forest. The distance between Harry, Ron and Hermione grew as they ducked and weaved among trees to avoid the curses flying at them from behind. Hermione caught a clang of chains echoing across the trees. Had somebody just fallen?

_ Oh gods, oh Merlin. Please, no, no, no . _

But she didn't stop. Several binding jinxes flew past, but she dodged with cat-like reflexes before hurling an exploding curse over her shoulder. She thought she saw several of her pursuers topple over but couldn't tell and there was no time to check. Half stumbling down an embankment Hermione slowed the furious path her feet were beating, shoes skittering over dirt. There were snatchers in front of her now, cutting off any further retreat. Spinning round she saw Harry following just behind. Steeling her nerves she raised her wand at him. The stinging jinx knocked Harry straight onto his back. Crashing down beside him she tore his glasses off, stuffing the spectacles into her pocket. Harry sat up abruptly, rattling off some revelation about Voldemort and the Elder wand. Part of Hermione heard the words and filed them away for later but the rest of her brain focused sharply on their current predicament. They were both viciously yanked to their feet as the rest of the snatching party, with Ron in tow, caught up to them. The one restraining Hermione made sure to give her a few good, twisting shakes as she pathetically attempted to break free.

“Don't touch her!” Ron yelled, struggling for all the world to get away from his captors. But all that did was earn him a swift, hard punch to the gut.

“Leave him!” Despite the deep fury within her at their mistreatment of Ron her voice wasn't able to muster much power. It rang hoarse and hollow in her ears as she again tried to yank her arms out of the snatcher’s grip.

“Your boyfriend'll get much worse than that if he doesn't. Learn. To behave himself.”

Scabior, apparently the leader of the group, strode confidently forward, voice trite and matter-of-fact, as if all of this were very trivial. Nearing them his gait slowed to a swagger. He approached with a sort of snide condescension, as if to further assert his successful capture. “What happened to you ugly?” Harry's face was almost unrecognizable in its swollen state. The rest of their conversation became background noise to Hermione as something clicked in her mind. That was…  _ her _ scarf around Scabior's neck. The one she'd left hoping Ron would find it. Seeing it on  _ him _ made her want to rip it off his neck and strangle him with it until his face was red and he was gasping for air. As if he'd sensed the malicious thoughts aimed at him Scabior sauntered over towards Hermione who, to her credit, had not given up her obviously vain attempts to break free of the grapple she was held in. “And you…my lovely…” She didn't like the sudden change in his tone. Not that there was anything at all to like in this situation but she especially did not like _ that _ . “Whaddah they call you?” He leaned in as he spoke, quieter now, a pretense of softness weaving through his words.

“Penelope Clearwater. Half-Blood.” Though her eyes flickered away from his piercing leer her tone was clear and even. Because the thing to do in this situation was to be calm. Even though his face was barely two inches from hers, even though his hand now drew upwards, seizing a handful of hair. She resisted the urge to balk as he buried his nose in it, breathing in her scent as deeply as his lungs would allow.

“There's no Vernon Dudley here,” one of the cronies informed him. Scabior lingered a second longer then swiveled back towards Harry. Hermione let out a breath, attempting to regain her composure. Stomach queasy, legs shaking she tried not to gag. Meanwhile Scabior was examining Harry's face far more closely. Again Hermione strove to loose herself of the snatchers hold. If they realized who  _ Vernon Dudley _ really was… Silence stretched through the air, tightening around her heart as she glimpsed realization dawning in Scabior's eyes.

“Change of plan. We're not taking this lot to the ministry.”

_ No, no, no! NO! _

\---

Hermione could barely keep up the vicious pace she was being pushed at. Ron and Harry were both silently following somewhere behind. The snatcher keeping an eye on her kept shoving her forward, driving her to move ever faster. She kept falling but he'd just haul her back up again and the process would start over. Ron and Harry cursed and yelled at the man every time, appalled at his treatment of her, furiously and helplessly trying to get free, to run to help her. All this did was earn them blows and beatings. After the fifth or sixth time Hermione dared a glance back, catching their gazes and trying to convey with one pleading look that she was fine and to please stop getting themselves hurt for her sake because it only made everything feel worse. She wasn't sure if they'd gotten all of that but apparently it had been enough to stop them. She'd also caught Scabior's eye as she was turning back to face the path ahead. Their eyes met for only a second but they were intently focused on her. Even now she was certain they were on her back, burning a hole through her skull.

For what felt to be well over the 100th time the man shoved her forward, even more roughly than before and she lost her balance yet again. There was only just time to throw her hands up to shield her face before she landed hard on the rocky ground. A hand grasped her forearm but she tore away from it, scrambling up on her own, ignoring the ache in her elbows, the burning in her knees, which she realised now were covered in blood that was soaking well through her jeans. She pressed on faster now, hoping her tired legs would be able to move quick enough to satisfy him, afraid of being shoved hard enough to fall again. Only this time he didn't push. Instead, she felt his palm trail down her coat to rest at the small of her back, guiding her forward at a slower pace. Shuddering, she clenched her fists, determined not to let any distress show. It would only upset Ron and Harry further and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Somehow she now felt vastly more uneasy. A striking urge to sneak a glance behind her suddenly caught hold and she was reminded of the Greek myth concerning Orpheus and Eurydice. She would not look back. She…

There was a sudden tickle against her cheek as the man leaned forward, pressing his face against her ear as he whispered to her.

“I never got the chance to thank you for the gift you left me, love.”

Hermione almost jumped out of her skin. It must have been Scabior who had helped her up, Scabior's hand now pressed to her back. Scabior leaning over her left shoulder. Face growing hot she clamped her teeth tightly together. Now the hand drew back up her coat, forefinger tracing a line up her spinal column, up the nape of her neck. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. She bit her lip in a bid to keep them back. With feather light touches he stroked the underside of her curls, twirling them around his fingers a few seconds before stroking his finger up and down her neck. An involuntary tremor shot down through her stomach at the delicate touch. Reaching around he pulled the length of her hair across to the right side, draping it over that shoulder to expose more of her neck. Again he leaned down. She could feel his whisper against the skin of her nape. Goosebumps prickled as his breath touched her flesh.

“I have to admit, I like the smell of you even better without that perfume.”

Somewhere behind her Ron cried out. “Leave her alone you bloody bastard!” She turned to look back, the tears beginning to flow down her cheeks now but Scabior gripped her chin, turning her face forward as the sounds of Ron's abuse continued behind her.

Hermione could feel words rising in her throat, spilling across her lips despite the alarms going off, warning her to hold them back. “And I would prefer my scarf without your revolting musk on it.” Inwardly she kicked herself, lamenting her sharp tongue. Surely she should have more self-control than to insult the dangerous criminal holding her and her friends prisoner. But she was exhausted, angry, and feeling so helpless it made her want to tear her hair out.

A quiet chuckle vibrated in his throat. “Musk? That's an interesting choice of words don't you think?” His words rasped dangerously low against her temple, mocking. But there was something else as well, an undertone of desire and seduction. “Why not ‘stink’ or ‘odor’, hm?”

Hermione bit down on her tongue, determined not to be provoked.

Shudders traveled down through her as Scabior moved to walk beside her, placing his arm around her neck and pulling her close against him. His arm hung down uncomfortably close to her chest. “Never had any complaints about my ‘musk’ before.”

“Well, the world is full of dishonest people.” For God's sake, why could she not  _ shut up?! _

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him cast a glance down at her. “Oh yes, the world is full of all sorts of unpleasant characters. People who'd slide a knife in your gut quick as look at you.” While he was saying this his left hand reached for something in his pocket. A knife. A big, sharp knife with jutting teeth ready to bite at their master's command. He brought it up and tossed it between his palms, playing with it a few inches from her nose. “People who'd mark up a pretty face like yours if the mouth on it made some thoughtless comments. But people can be reasonable too, love. A little apology can go a long way.”

Her gut clenched. The humiliation of it all was almost too much to bare. But if the situation called for it she could bite out an apology. Make it resemble something like sincerity, even. Voice soft and clear she let the words slide delicately out. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what, lovely?”

“I'm sorry for insinuating you smell bad.”

“S'alright, love, we all say stupid things.” Voice dropping low he pocketed the knife and brushed his lips against her ear. “But that's not the kind of apology I had in mind.”

\---

Malfoy manor appeared over the horizon, looming closer with every step. All the long hours they walked Hermione's mind was working up a storm, desperately trying to cloy some plan, any plan from her brain. But it was difficult to keep track of her thoughts with Scabior just beside her, arm still hung round her neck. A few times she tried to create some distance between them, making it appear as though she was only stumbling a bit. He saw through it each time and merely yanked her form back to his side. Every now and again the fingers dangling near her chest would twitch and brush against her. Eventually she crossed her arms tightly against herself, which he  _ graciously _ allowed, to her utter relief. Malfoy manor was probably no more than two miles off now.

The woods were unusually still. Unease permeated the air, as if the trees were only waiting for something. Then, just ahead, a solitary figure emerged from behind an oak. “Ah, if it isn't my good friend Scabior.” The speaker ran their words together in a lazy mumble as they addressed the party, apparently familiar with their captors. He was lanky and gaunt, awkward looking, with hair cropped short and sticking out at peculiar angles.

“Greshook.” Though he remained steady in his speech Hermione couldn't help but notice the slight stiffness of unease that permeated Scabior’s limbs as he halted. “Always a distinct pleasure to see you.” The undertones of sarcasm were obvious.

“And what have we here?”

“Just a couple of deliveries for the Malfoys.” Scabior was cool and calm but the air was so thick with tension Hermione imagined she could feel it weighing down on her. But then again that was probably just because Scabior was suddenly gripping her far tighter against his side.

“You work for Malfoy now?” The tone was questioning but the statement of disbelief behind the words was glaringly apparent.

“No.”

“Then why not just take em to the ministry, eh?”

Scabior had no answer. Several more figures stepped from behind the trees ahead.

“Tell you what Scabior, let me do you a favor and take these…” Greshook never finished his sentence. Quick as lightning Scabior drew his black wand and sent the killing curse forth from it with pinpoint accuracy. Hermione gasped as the body fell to the ground. There was a beat then all fell to disjointed confusion. She was thrust aside as the two sides duelled, closing in, ducking for cover, advancing, retreating. She, Harry and Ron wasted no time. They were tearing off together through the woods. Most of the snatchers were busy fighting. Only a few pursued. Those chasing them were apparently not all on the same side and alternated between hurling hexes and curses at one another and the three they pursued. Before long only one was left to chase them down, the others lying mangled somewhere behind them in the forest. However, this last snatcher was wounded and slow, and despite the spells he continued hurling towards them fell behind. But now was not the time to congratulate themselves. They weren't out of the woods yet, not in any sense of the word. Soon the only sounds they could hear were their own feet plodding across the leaf-covered ground. Hermione had no idea how long they ran but eventually their pace slowed, which only made it easier to understand how forbidding the situation was. Their wands and her purse, all their supplies, any hope of defense or communication, lay in the possession of the snatchers. No matter how hard she tried to stop them the tears cascaded down her face in a steady stream, followed shortly after by quiet sobs. Ron laid a comforting arm around her shoulder, giving her a squeeze as Harry took her hand. She was sure it made them feel better as well, to be able to offer her comfort. Leaning into Ron she rested her tired head on his shoulder and put an arm around his waist, tangling her hand in the coarse material of his shirt as though she could steady herself that way.

Harry held her hand firmly. “We'll get out of this one yet, you'll see. We've been in worse situations before.”

Hermione laughed despite herself. “ _ When _ ? ”

Quiet for a moment Harry thought. “Second year. When you were petrified and Ron and I had to make a mess of everything trying to save the school by ourselves.”

“Oi,” Ron interjected. “Don't forget we had  _ Lockhart 's _ help.” They all laughed at this, genuine smiles lighting up their faces as they stumbled in the darkening woods. Hermione had to release Ron to hold her stomach. The sound of her mirth was off, too high, too tense. But it felt good to laugh all the same. Now the silence felt easier, more of a soothing comfort than something to provoke unease. They resumed their positions, Harry taking Hermione’s hand, Ron holding Hermione's side and she with her arm wrapped around him. They'd get through it. Because they were together.

\---

The moon was high over their heads, bright enough to offer a small amount of illumination across the naked forest. They all leaned on one another now, falling asleep on their feet. But they had to keep walking. Whichever group of snatchers had won would be after them soon enough and without wands their only chance was to get as far away as they could. Maybe find shelter, an ally, anything. They'd been uncannily lucky that afternoon in the turn of events that led to their escape, and Hermione didn't dare hope they'd get so lucky should they fall into snatcher clutches a second time.

\---

Hermione woke. She hadn't even realized she'd been asleep. The night was still young. Ron and Harry were beside her, in a heap, sleeping heavily. They must have literally collapsed from sleep deprivation and pure exhaustion. Before she could decide whether to give in to drowsiness or rouse the other two she heard a distant sound, growing rapidly louder. Heavy, thunderous footsteps. One guess who it was.

“ _ Ron! Ron, Harry, get up! _ ” It was incredibly difficult to waken them, especially Ron, but once they were up their own adrenaline did the rest of the work. But how could they hope to escape a werewolf when they were armed with nothing? How could they hide or fight? Still, they ran, trying to keep as quiet a tread as possible. The thundering was drawing closer.

_ Thump, thump, thump, thud _

“I CAN  _ SMELL _ YOU!” Greyback's booming voice echoed after them. They ran faster still. Without warning, a curse flew at them, striking Harry square in his back.

He cried out in agony then lay still.

_ Was he…? _ No, of course not, they wouldn't dare. But he was stunned. They wouldn't have been able to outrun Fenrir in any case, never mind while carrying Harry.

Ron and Hermione bent over him, hauling him into an undergrowth of bushes as best they could.

“Hermione, you have to go.”

“What?” She whirled on Ron as they crouched, confused and more than a little angry.

“We can't get away and take Harry with us. But if you go, maybe you could find help, rescue us, do something. There's no reason to let them catch all of us.” Hermione opened her mouth to protest but Ron laid a gentle finger on her lips. “You know I'm right,” he whispered. She was crying now, knowing there was no way around this one. Grabbing his collar she pulled him forward, kissing him with a determined sort of ferocity. He cupped her cheeks, leaning in for a moment, enveloping her soft lips with his, closing his eyes tight and trying to memorize every line of her. “Now go.” His voice was husky with the tears he held back. Hermione obeyed.

It wasn't long before she heard the taunts and jeers of the snatchers, Ron's yells as he put up a fight. It stirred a miserable pride in her. He'd put up a fight til the very end, her Ron. Soon she heard the telltale crashes of snatchers in hot pursuit.

She evaded them for the better part of an hour. But what should she do now? Hide? Did she really have a chance to outrun them? Sounds of running water somewhere in the distance became slowly louder. Eventually she tumbled down an embankment and there it was. A wide, rapidly flowing river lay on the path ahead. It would be tricky but she felt sure she could cross it without being carried off by the current. Still, when she reached the other bank she was sputtering, sopping wet and frozen to the bone. She hadn't gone straight across, instead traveling down the stream a ways before getting onto the other bank. Teeth chattering, arms wrapped tightly around herself Hermione trudged onward. In a bid to distract from the biting cold permeating every inch of her she focused on reciting the names and meanings of various runes. She was so consumed with cold and her attempts to distract herself from that cold she didn't notice the drop in front of her. Before she realized what she'd done she was falling, toppling at an odd angle. She landed hard on her ankle. The crack was so loud. Screaming in agony she saw her right foot was sickeningly twisted. Sobbing she rocked back and forth, feeling hopeless now. Examining the bruising area she thanked the stars that at least no part of the bone was sticking out. Perhaps it was her own weakness but Hermione didn't have the strength to even attempt to walk on it. Instead she shuffled further under the overhanging hill she'd fallen down. It wasn't much of a cover but it was something.

\---

Hermione was unaware how much time passed but it felt an eternity. Her fingertips and toes were frighteningly numb. Her hairs were half-frozen in icicles. Her clothes were only damp now instead of sopping with water but it wasn't much better. This was, without a doubt, the longest night of her life. And it wasn't even over yet. Though she couldn't see much, it was obvious her ankle had swollen even further, now a big, heaping mass of bruised flesh. What now? Stay here and wait to be found? Die of hypothermia? Starvation?

As if only waiting for those hopeless thoughts to cue it, a voice rang out to her from somewhere above. “We know you're near, love.  _ Fenrir can smell you . _ ”

Hugging her knees Hermione bit into her arms as she sobbed in silent fear. “We have your friends…” He was closer now. She could hear footsteps. “No use prolonging the inevitable. Come on out so we can get this nasty business over with.” He spoke as if she were a child who'd run away and now had to come out to face her punishment. “Listen, love, if you don't come out soon, your boyfriend here is gonna be suffering the consequences.” Her sobs ceased as she listened even more intently. There was silence for a beat before Scabior broke it. “Listen,  _ Penelope _ . If you don't come out in the next minute, I'm going to break Ronnie's fingers one by one! Come out.  _ Now _ . ”

“I'm h-h-here!” Her voice was uneven, on the cusp of hysteria and it was difficult to speak through the chattering of her teeth.

“Come out.” His voice was flat, deadly fury bubbling underneath.

“I… I-I-I can't. M-my an-n-n-nkle… I think it's b-broken.” She waited for some kind of response but none came. However, she heard the rapid, determined tread as he neared her. When he jumped down she saw the light of his wand. It took only a moment to spot her.

He crouched down, elbows resting on his knees as he examined the trembling witch before him. “You've caused me a lot of trouble, little  _ miss _ .” He spoke through smiling, clenched teeth. Shame burned in her cheeks at her own tears. Glancing down to her swollen ankle he raised a finger and jabbed it. Hard. She shrieked in agony, head thrown back as her nerves wailed in protest. “I reckon that puts us even, love.” Apparently his anger had dissipated now, Hermione noted through blurry eyes. As if causing her pain had been enough to ease his irate mental state. “Can't have you freezing to death I suppose.” A flick of his wand and her clothing was not only dry but blessedly warm, hair no longer frozen in chunks. Her shivering stopped, and she realized how far beyond exhausted every aspect of her being was. Then before she even knew what he was doing Scabior scooped her up, muttered a levitation charm and was bringing her back to the main group. Hermione wasn't totally sure, but it seemed their numbers were slightly fewer than before. Suddenly she caught sight of Ron, unconscious and being dragged behind Fenrir Greyback.

“What have you done to him?!” she shrieked, attempting to shove herself out of Scabior's arms. But he only clasped her tighter.

“None of that now or you'll regret it. He didn't leave us much of a choice. Quite the fighter, that one. And as for Harry Potter,” Hermione flinched as he said the name. “that stinging jinx you hit him with wore off soon enough. The Dark Lord'll be happy with us, I can promise you that.”

… It had all been for nothing. All of it, all the death and pain, the sacrifices… Her will broke then, and she sobbed helplessly into her hands as the snatchers mocked and laughed around her, and then, quick as thinking, her body dragged her down the tunnel of unconsciousness.


	2. Getting to Know You, All About You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Scabior's clutches, Hermione does her best to find a means of escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh. Yeah. This is pretty long. But I couldn't figure out a way to split it in two. Hopefully it's worth it. Bit of smut here but nothing too serious. Let me know what you think.

Sunlight played gently against the lids of Hermione’s eyes, coaxing them open. Squinting she tried to look around her, make sense of what she was seeing. Where…? Memories flooded her mind, so many and so quickly she wondered if she might drown. As they subsided she sat up, glancing around. She was in a tent. A rather crowded tent, actually. There were two wardrobes, a few shelves, rugs, chests, tapestries, some chairs, the cot she was on, and piles upon piles of clothing strewn in a lazy mess nearly everywhere. Next to the bed there was also a nightstand littered with dirty dishes and stray pieces of worn jewelry. The flap lay open to allow a single beam of light to stream through. Uneasily she stood, taking a few tentative steps towards it. But wait, her ankle… Hermione pulled up the leg of her jeans to examine it. There was no trace of the injury she’d suffered last night. Obviously her captors took care of it. Something to be grateful for, she supposed. What now? Search for Ron and Harry? Attempt escape? Before there was even a chance to choose a course of action, a hand brushed the covering aside, its owner stepping in with a cocky air of boredom.

“Morning, love. Sleep well?”

Hermione’s gut twisted and fluttered uneasily. Scabior was certainly not the first person she wanted to see in the morning. “Thought you’d be out at least another few hours. Feeling peckish yet?” The acute emptiness in her abdomen assured her she was but her tongue remained still. Yet Hermione’s stomach, traitor that it was, released a loud, low gurgle, as if making sure to answer Scabior’s question. “... Right. I’ll go fetch you something then.” In another second he was gone. Now Hermione wasted no time trying for the exit. Unfortunately, she didn’t even get the chance to peek outside, blocked by some invisible barrier. Unsurprising, all things considered. Turning on her heel she started tearing through drawers, the wardrobes, anything she could get her hands on, even lifting the rug to look under it. Just as she began examining the contents of the bed stand she heard someone entering. Turning round, hands clasped behind her back, Hermione tried for a vacant expression, as though she hadn’t just been desperately rummaging around to find herself a weapon.

“Oi, were you goin’ through my stuff?”

Apparently her vacant expression was unconvincing.

 _So this is Scabior’s tent._ _Should’ve figured_.

Denying her snooping would be useless so she remained silent.

“I don’t appreciate people touching my things. Maybe I’ll withhold breakfast as punishment, what would you think of that?”

Glancing down to the plate in Scabior’s hand Hermione examined the contents. Excessively runny eggs. A piece of toast that more closely resembled charcoal. A single link of sausage, overcooked and more shriveled than the skin of an erumpent. She wondered which would be worse: continuing to go hungry or eating the offered slop.

Scabior raised an eyebrow, apparently awaiting an answer. Although she didn’t look forward to stuffing down the pile of barely edible food Hermione had to admit she felt rather weak. Hunger gnawed painfully and in the end won out. Now was not the time to be picky. His previous comment to her about an apology going a long way flashed through her mind. “I’m sorry for going through your things. Please, may I have some breakfast?”

The knowing, supercilious grin spreading over Scabior’s face made Hermione’s blood boil. But she swallowed her pride. If he took pleasure in her humiliation, then so be it. Shrugging he proffered the dish. Just before she could take it he let it slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor, contents spilling over the red and purple rug at their feet. “ _Oops._ ”

Cheeks flushing with indignant anger she ground her teeth, willing herself not to say anything rash.

“Enjoy your food,” he called over his shoulder as he left, sounding extremely self-satisfied.

Crouching, she looked over her breakfast, immediately deciding the eggs were unsalvageable. The toast, which looked not unlike a hockey puck, only needed a light brushing. The sausage was clean. Well, clean _enough_. It wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to fill her but it was… something. Within a few minutes she’d finished eating, an unpleasant taste now coating her tongue. Now, back to the problem at hand: finding a weapon. Anything that might help her, really. The threat of Scabior returning at any moment wasn’t enough to deter Hermione from continuing her search. Most of the chests were locked, of course, but the few that weren’t only contained yet more clothes or useless trinkets. Hermione even went so far as checking the pockets of each individual item of clothing, which was extraordinarily exhausting and tedious considering the mass of apparel the tent contained. In the end her efforts were fruitless and only succeeded in tiring her. Getting up from the final jumble of outfits she’d rummaged through Hermione strode over to a corner, sat, leaned against one of the wardrobes and hugged her knees tightly to her chest. Focus on a task had kept distress at bay but now, with nothing to do, her mind filled with lamentations. Hopefully Ron and Harry were faring well enough. Likely they’d all soon be given to the death eaters. Tortured, maimed, killed. Who knew? Whatever was in store would be far from pleasant. But there was something puzzling her: why were they still camping in the woods? Why had they not been turned over to the Malfoys? Or at least the ministry? Eager at the distraction Hermione’s brain filed through the facts.

_Fact: They’d been going to take us to the Malfoys instead of the ministry._

_Fact: They were stopped by other snatchers and the two groups fought._

_Fact: It has been at least one day since they recaptured us. If their plan is still to take us to the Malfoys, we should have arrived by now._

Not much to go on, but there were several possible conclusions.

_Possibility: We weren’t taken to the ministry because Scabior wanted to make sure they earned the rightful reward and were credited with catching Harry Potter._

_Possibility: The Malfoys are not at home and Scabior is awaiting their return._

_Possibility: Scabior no longer plans to take us to the Malfoys._

_Possibility: The other group of snatchers is still pursuing Scabior and his snatchers, or, there is/are completely different band(s) of snatchers now attempting to spirit us away from Scabior and his snatchers._

The word ‘snatchers’ now sounded very peculiar.

_Possibility: Scabior and his… group… disposed of the ones who attacked them before we reached the manor and are in trouble for killing them. Unclear how this would have been discovered, if there would be a punishment for killing among snatchers, or what the punishment would be._

_Possibility: Harry and/ or Ron have already been turned over._

Hermione shivered, vehemently hoping that was not the case, for more reasons than one.

_Possibility: Others have discovered and destroyed the horcruxes, Voldemort is dead and Scabior and his thugs are now on the run._

She laughed aloud at the last ‘possibility.’ One could dream but the likelihood of that outcome was too far-fetched. After turning over her thoughts for some time, Hermione came to a conclusion. Somehow or other, word got out that a band of snatchers was killed right outside Malfoy manor, bringing down death eaters and snatchers alike to search throughout the woods looking for the culprits. Scabior would wait for the heat to die down, then turn them over and claim his reward. A reasonable enough assumption. If only she had more information.

Perhaps… if she was clever and careful… and Scabior was sure to know… All she need do was find a way to get the answers she wanted out of him. The trick was learning more about the man, understanding what influenced him, drove him, how he could be manipulated and exploited. A daunting, unpleasant prospect. Hermione would prefer to proceed through the rest of her life learning nothing more about Scabior than what little she already knew. Then again, what choice did she have? Precious few, in this situation. What was more Hermione felt sure Scabior was no idiot. This would prove tricky, no doubts about that. She thought back to that night after they’d escaped, about what Harry had said.

_“We’ve been in worse situations before.”_

_“When?”_

_“Second year. When you were petrified and Ron and I had to make a mess of everything trying to save the school by ourselves.”_

Yes, they did work so much better together. But in this she would be alone. Terribly, horribly alone.

 

\---

 

“Wake up.”

Hermione picked her head up from her knees, feeling dazed. Had she fallen asleep against the wardrobe?

Scabior stood glaring over her. “ _Get. Up._ ”

Yes. Yes she had.

She obeyed, rising to meet his scowl with her own.

“Oh, the _looks_ this one can give. Like she’s planning in that pretty head of hers how she’s going to rip me open.”

A gruff laugh answered the remark. Fenrir was in the tent as well. “I could wipe that look off her face…” he growled through sharp teeth.

“No,” Scabior replied thoughtfully. He leaned towards Hermione conspiratorially as he grabbed her upper arm, leading her outside. He met her eyes with a coy smile, one eyebrow raised appreciatively. “I like it.”

Hermione thought it might at least be nice to get out in the open air, to feel the sun on her face, that there might be some relief in leaving that stuffy tent. Oh, how wrong she could be. The sight which greeted her was anything but pleasant. Ron was kneeling in the middle of the encampment, hands tied behind his back, face bruised and bleeding.

Scabior sensed the change in Hermione’s demeanor. Nails digging into her arm he whispered to her, lips barely moving. “Know that he’ll suffer more for any misbehavior from you. Understand?” Tense and holding back tears Hermione nodded. “Now, since you’ve been so polite and respectful I’ll let you have a moment with him.”

Disbelief spread through her as her arm was released. She dared a glance at Scabior but wasn’t about to give him time to repeat himself or worse, change his mind. Dashing forward she dropped in front of Ron, pulling him into a tight embrace, losing herself in the brief comfort of his familiar, sturdy form. “ _What have they done to you? How’s Harry? Have they separated the two of you?_ ” She kept her voice low, trying for at least some measure of privacy amongst the snatchers who encircled them.

Ron ignored her questions. “ _Are you all right? Have they…_ ” he trailed off, his swollen, battered eyes looking into hers with such concern her heart tightened in her chest. “ _They haven’t done anything to you, have they?_ ”

“ _No, Ron, I’m fine, I swear._ ”

“ _I don’t trust them_ ,” Ron’s whisper was husky, constricted by adamant hatred. Hermione followed his steely gaze, looking over her shoulder to see who Ron had turned his withering look of fury upon. Scabior stood still, leisurely inspecting his nails, appearing for all the world to be completely absorbed in his own cuticles. Hermione was certain he heard every word exchanged between them.

“ _Of course you don’t trust them, Ron. They’re snatchers._ ” Her voice assumed the ever-familiar, slightly condescending tone she took while lecturing him on the obvious, a regular sort of exchange for them. There was the slightest twitch of a smile at the corners of his mouth at her words. “ _Anyway_ , _do you know how Harry is? And what on earth have they brought us out here for?_ ”

“I’m glad you asked, pet.” Scabior’s voice, loud and demanding attention, sounded unusually harsh after their whispering. “We’ve brought you out here because your red-headed lover’s been giving us no end of grief. Fighting anything that comes within two feet of him, yelling and cursing up a storm. And just now when we untied him to let him eat what does he do but throw the food right back in our faces. I’m _sick of it_ . Now, obviously our beatings haven’t been sinking in very well, so we’re going to try a different approach.” Before either of them could react Scabior grabbed Hermione, hauling her up and away from Ron, producing his wand to point threateningly at her _red-headed lover_ . “Now, Mr. Weasley _,_ I’d like an apology.” Hermione’s gut clenched in sympathy and anger at the helpless expression of wrath on Ron’s face.

Ron ground his teeth, eyes falling to the ground. “I’m sorry,” he managed to growl.

Scabior’s upper lip lifted in a calm sneer. “Don’t believe you. No, that’s not quite good enough.”

Ron looked up, seeming almost irritated. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for…” he trailed off, struggling against his own pride. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s nowhere _near_ good enough. Am I a joke to you? Do you not care about your little girlfriend? _What do you suppose I might do_ with a _beautiful, delicate_ creature like this, hmm? What might I do to _her_ to punish _you_? Carve her face up? Cut off that pretty little nose? Write my name across her chest with a knife?”

Hermione stood there trembling, arm bruising from where Scabior’s fingers dug mercilessly into her skin. How desperately she wanted all this to be over, to be somewhere, anywhere else, so long as they didn’t have to be _here_ anymore. But you can’t wish yourself away from reality.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said again. It sounded more sincere this time but any idiot could still hear the reluctance underneath, the pride refusing to buckle.

Scabior contemplated Ron for a moment, as if weighing his apology. “Then again, it’d be such a shame to waste a beauty like hers with a dagger. There are far more… tender tortures…”

Hermione’s heart, already pumping at an outrageous pace, hammered even harder now. All the rage that had just covered Ron’s features seemed to melt away, leaving only terror. “No, no no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m…”

“Well, you tried your best, didn’t you? I suppose you must not care for her very much. It’s all the same to me, in the end. Actually, I think I prefer it this way.”

Ron struggled against the snatchers holding him, voice rising as panic overtook him. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…_ No! Please, please no!”

Scabior ignored Ron’s pleas as he dragged Hermione back to his tent. For the first few steps she followed along numbly, feet dragging along, as if lulled into a trance by Ron’s horse, desperate cries. Suddenly her eyes refocused, brain beginning to truly wrap around the situation. Straining back against Scabior she pulled and shoved, threw her weight towards him, against him, trying anything, everything to get free. She hit at his chest, the hand that gripped her, his head, anything she could reach. Salty and bitter tears streaked uneven trails down her cheeks. Ron’s cries and the jeers of the snatchers became background noise to the blood roaring through her own ears. Scabior tried to keep yanking her along, but she planted her feet firmly, pulling back with every ounce of strength her limbs possessed. She gained the smallest bit of ground, less than a foot. But Scabior was done playing. Pocketing his wand he raised his right fist and struck Hermione across the face with a powerful, firmly aimed blow. A strange lethargy interlaced with pain washed over her, dulling her senses. She stumbled back. For good measure he struck again, far harder. Head buzzing she tumbled clumsily backwards. Scabior picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder the same as he would a bag of sand. In a few strides he’d entered his tent. Dropping her in a chair he closed the flap. Confused, Hermione watched him stride over to his bed. Head turned he listened carefully a moment. Then without warning his fist hit the cot in rapid rhythm. He grunted and yelled the most obscene, horrible things Hermione had ever heard, about her, what he was supposedly doing to her, how it felt _._ Outside the men laughed, encouraging, egging him on. Some mocked Ron, mocked his tears, his red face, the way he cried out and called to her. Somewhere deep down Hermione felt a small measure of relief that Scabior was not actually… But the sickness in her stomach threatened to spill out of her. Her cries came out in an unending, sobbing stream. Before long she drew her knees to her chest in the chair, hands pressed so tight into her ears they ached. Rocking back and forth in a small line her mind wailed, fought against the noise around her, attempting to block out all sounds. Minutes passed. Grisly, gruesome minutes that went on and on, threatening to continue dragging by forever.

Hermione wasn’t sure how much time had stretched by but suddenly she felt a hand tangling in the back of her hair, pulling firmly but gently up, guiding her to stand. “Now _,_ ” Scabior whispered. “I want you to scream for me _._ ” Staring at him, somewhat dumbfounded, Hermione only continued choking out sobs. “For the love of… can’t any of you just _do as I say?_ If you don’t scream I’m gonna go back out there and give red a little taste of the crucio curse _._ ” Breathing deeply through his nose in a bid to calm himself, he gripped Hermione’s shoulders as her sobs became more hushed, slowly turning to uneasy hiccups. “Scream for me.”

She was silent a moment. Only a moment. Then she let all the terror, all the misery, the outrage, the injustice of all this tumble out in a long, hysterical scream. It rose up and down in her throat as she sobbed through it. Then all was still. Hermione collapsed into the chair again, curling into a ball. How many tears could you cry before there simply weren’t any left?

“Excellent.” The appreciation in Scabior’s voice almost drove her over the edge. “I’m going to go have a little chat with your Ron, but let me warn you, if you tell him I didn’t do what he thinks I’ve done, I swear to you on all the booze in Ireland I’ll cut off his fingers and feed them to you.”

Then he was gone. And Hermione was alone. Again. With nothing but her emotions and the agonizing thoughts stampeding across the darkness of her mind.

 

\---

 

Hermione had been by herself for hours. She suspected some silencing charm was cast over Scabior’s tent because she couldn’t hear any noises she thought she ought to beyond it. No birds, no feet stamping through leaves, no voices. But maybe it was better this way. She didn’t want to hear any of those men. Hatred so strong it made her feel sick was creeping in, worming its way deep down inside her, spinning a silk web through every inch of her heart. Eventually she became too exhausted to think, to listen, to feel. Sleep refused to offer her release and instead she merely sat askew in the chair, all but deaf and dumb to the world around her. Eyes resting on a single tapestry, depicting a horse and rider being torn down by a pack of wolves, Hermione thought of nothing. Only vague, half-formed ideas and words would dribble across her mind now and then. It was like the eye of the storm, the strange calm inside the tempest. Her limits had been reached, exceeded and ruthlessly cast aside. So now she sat. And she stared. And her mind thought of nothing. Almost nothing.

Hermione didn’t shift her eyes when Scabior entered. “Well, we’ve finally got all that out of the way. You wouldn’t believe how much of the fight went out of him. Course he swung at me when I went out. He’s a strong one, that Weasley. But all I had to do was threaten to give my men a turn with you and he shut right up. Crying like a child the whole time. Pathetic.”

Hermione’s reply was hoarse, throat raw after all her crying. “You’re the pathetic one.” There was no emotion behind the words, she merely stated them as plain and simple truth.

“Am I? How so?” He plopped himself into a chair across from her, legs swung over the side. Hands folded over his chest he waited patiently for an answer.

Removing her gaze from the tapestry which had inexplicably arrested her attention she cast an impassive look to Scabior. Hermione’s features barely shifted but her eyes burned with deep, passionate disgust. “You take advantage of the innocent with power you have no right to. You serve a treacherous, despicable lord to help him fulfill evil ends that ultimately harm the world, the natural order, everything.” She shifted back to stare at the tapestry. “Pathetic.”

“You’ve got it wrong, love. I only,”

“Stop calling me that,” she snapped. “My name is Hermione.”

“Fine then. _Hermione_ . I only do this to make a living. Your own ministry is the one who pays to have mud bloods brought in. Sure, the minister has an imperious curse on him, but there are plenty more who’re just _ecstatic_ to rid the world of mud bloods. Take Umbridge, for example. She was in the ministry long before the rise of the Dark Lord. I’ve never seen someone so thrilled to punish and humiliate others.”

Hermione’s anger suddenly flared up. Face contorting with outrage she turned to him. “Take a look in the mirror, then.”

Scabior rose suddenly, pointing a finger threateningly in her face. “Don’t you dare compare me to that toady, stubby little bitch. If you’d had to deal with her you’d know I’m a far-sight kinder than she is.”

“I _have_ dealt with her,” Hermione spat bitterly. “She was the defense against the dark arts teacher in our fifth year. She was a tyrant, an ignorant fool. Cruel, too. And I _still_ say you and her are alike. You’re just two rotting peas in a horrible, moldy pod.”

Scabior cast her a thoughtful glance as he slowly reseated himself. “... Do you know what Umbridge likes to do with the good-looking snatchers? Any she takes a fancy to?” Unable to stop herself Hermione turned her gaze back to him, anger fading as it was replaced with curiosity. “She’ll get them into her office using one excuse or another, then slip them something in a drink, or, if she’s really desperate, she might use the Imperius curse. Do I need to go on? Can you guess what she does?” Scabior savored the way her cheeks flushed crimson.

“That’s horrible… Did she ever try that on you?”

A surreptitious smile crept over Scabior’s face at this question. Hermione didn’t seem to realize her admission in assuming Umbridge had tried to lure _him_ into her office. “Yeah, a few times. As if I’d fall for anything so simple. I keep my distance, as does anyone else with half a brain in their heads. But you know, all that power went to her head quicker than you can say ‘crucio.’ That’s one of her favorite words, you know, crucio. Who needs to go through the trouble of getting truth serum when you can just torture the information out of someone with a simple, unforgivable curse? That bint has done more for Voldemort than I ever did.”

Suddenly Hermione felt alert, though she was quick to hide her shift in mood. This was it, the chance she’d been waiting for, a chance to get information out of him. Here Scabior was, offering it up on a silver plate.

_Careful, Hermione. Tread carefully._

“So if the situation was reversed, and the ministry offered money for you to catch death eaters… would you do it?”

A guffaw erupted from his chest. “The ministry would never take my services in any situation but the one we’re in now, I can promise you. I’ve been on the wrong side of their law for too long. The Dark Lord may have some extreme ideas but you can get things done with him in charge.”

“Are they things worth doing?”

“Doesn’t make a difference to me. All I know is I have my freedom and I can make money.”

“So you only care as far as your own freedom? Not for the fundamental freedoms you’re taking from others?”

“Listen, _little girl,_ ” he began, assuming all the authority of a jaded adult. “my life hasn’t left room for me to care about anyone but myself.”

“That’s nothing more than a lazy excuse. I wouldn’t be surprised if _Umbridge_ had a sob story to excuse her behavior.” All Hermione needed was one look at Scabior’s face to know she’d gone too far.

_Merlin’s beard, I’ve done it now._

As Scabior spoke his words held a false tone of patience. He sat upright. “You think so, then?” Fright overtook Hermione. She tried to make herself smaller in the chair, small enough to disappear. “I suppose you’re right… Perhaps she and I have similar reasons for our behavior. Perhaps we are as  _ similar _ as you seem to think.” Reaching into his pocket he slowly drew his wand to aim it at her. “Since she and I are  _ so _ alike, I think I’ll take a page from her book.” Hermione realized what he was about to do too late to stop him. His wand flicked and her mind retreated far within itself as the Imperius curse took hold. “Now,” his voice drawled out, eager yet savoring each second. “come over here.”

_Why don’t I go over to stand by him?_

Her feet followed his whim. She stepped delicately forward.

Viewing her thoughtfully he was quiet a moment. “Sit on my lap.”

_I don’t want…! Hhhuuugh… why don’t I… sit?_

Turning Hermione sat on the edge of Scabior’s knees, body perpendicular to his.

“No no,” he amended impatiently. “Not like that. Straddle me.”

Some small fragment of Hermione’s mind cried out against the command but the rest of her refused to listen, _couldn’t_ listen. Standing she faced Scabior, laying one hand on his shoulder as she lowered herself onto his lap, thighs resting against his hips. “That’s more like it,” he purred. Wand now placed securely in his jacket pocket his hands wrapped around behind her to pull her closer against him. “ _Put your arms around my neck_ ,” he whispered. Even in her slack-jawed state the gentleness of his tone did not escape her. But then that revelation was washed away in the staggering impulse to obey. Their faces were only inches apart now. Dark brown eyes stared blankly down into pools of intense grey. “... _Kiss me_ .” Even being as close as she was to him Hermione only just caught the words, spoken with such a soft craving surprise spread through her. But it was swept off, overcome with desire. Desire to follow the command. Closing the distance between them she brushed her lips against his. For a moment he stayed still, allowing her to place kisses across his mouth, his upper and lower lip. Soon his hands clutched her narrow waist and his own mouth moved against hers. It wasn’t rough or harsh as she’d expected. Again there was an uncharacteristic and wholly perplexing gentleness in his actions. As he ran his fingers up and down her sides she squirmed involuntarily, feeling ticklish. A low grunt escaped him and she felt him twitch and move beneath her as his length slowly hardened, pressing into her. Now his tongue swept forward to brush her lower lip as he sucked it. Then it was working its way into her mouth, stroking her own tongue, skirting across the roof of her mouth. Every now and then his hips gave the slightest jerk. His member was now fully erect, grinding into her groin as he thrust against her. Running his fingers up and down her sides he tickled her, on purpose now. Again she squirmed at the stimulation. Some cross between a groan of pleasure and an appreciative hum vibrated through Scabior as she moved on top of him. “ _Say my name…_ ” His voice was thick and seductive, sending a shiver deep down into her core.

“ _Scabior_ ,” she whispered. It was airy and light on her tongue, with the slightest hint of a breathy, needy whine behind it.

“Augh, fuck…” He slowed the bucking of his hips for a moment, collecting himself. He leaned forward against her, his breath hot and heavy on her neck. Arms moving to encircle her lower torso he pulled Hermione’s slender form tight against him, hips once more resuming their thrust. “ _Tell me you want me_ ,” he demanded, burying his face in her chest.

“I…”

A knock against the tent pole froze Scabior in his movements. “ _Shh_ ,” he warned.

The voice of whoever was outside sounded peculiar, as though it was traveling through water before reaching them. “Dinner’s up, Scabior. And Fenrir was just sayin’ the woods’ll be clear soon so we can take…”

Removing his wand Scabior held it to his throat as he spoke. “Shut up, Trickjaw you abominable git. Leave me the fuck alone!” There was a silence, then the sound of feet shuffling away. Scabior placed his head back where it had been before the interruption, buried between Hermione’s breasts, panting slightly as his body climbed down from its excitement. Arms kept tightly wrapped around her he lifted his head to look up into her face. Breath still uneven he placed several more kisses against her mouth before moving his hands to her hips, guiding her to stand with him. Lingering in the quiet he stood staring at her with single-mindedly intensity. Hermione’s brain was fuzzy from the curse but even in her mentally weakened state she felt a burning curiosity to understand that look in his eyes. There was something of… tenderness, perhaps? A strained look full of… What?

 _Longing_ , she realized. But then the look was utterly gone, devolved into a strangely blank sneer. He exited the tent quickly and as he did Hermione felt the spell release. Gasping she collapsed to the ground, knees hitting the bit of the carpet stained with now dry and shriveled bits of eggs. Mind reeling she struggled to make sense of what just happened. Sudden sickness overtook her but her stomach was void of anything to vomit. Choking and gagging she convulsed on the carpet before her body settled. The tears came again. She didn’t want to cry. Hermione was so tired… stomach growling in empty pain, mind racing too fast through too much to keep track of or sort through. Dropping onto her side she lay still. Yet again she drifted unhappily into unconsciousness.

 

\---

 

Half-awake. Body still. Sleep clinging to her mind. Someone was picking her up off the rug. Then someone placed her on something soft, covering her with a blanket. Dreams overcame her mind, and it dove back to its slumbering state.

 

\---

 

Daylight streamed through the tent’s open flap while she lay on the cot. Overall, it reeked of déjà vu, only this time the pain in her gut was more extreme. Something on the bed stand caught her eye. A bowl. A _clean_ bowl, with sliced up pieces of an apple. Limbs heavy she lazily took a piece and brought it to her mouth. Chewing while laying down was awkward, but she didn’t have the mental or physical energy to move much. It took Hermione nearly 15 minutes to finish the whole piece of fruit. The pinching tightness in her gut lessened but refused to dissipate completely. One question battered around her head: what should she do now? What was the plan? That snatcher from before had confirmed her hypothesis regarding the reason she, Ron and Harry hadn’t been turned over. From what he said, it sounded like they’d soon be taken to the Malfoys. From there it would be straight to Voldemort. And probably death. Maybe a long, slow, torturous one. What chance did they have of getting away? Hermione didn’t want to die. More importantly she didn’t want her friends to suffer. And now the tears were back. She was so sick of crying. Sick of feeling helpless. Tired as she was Hermione stood. Although exiting the tent wasn’t currently an option, it wasn’t as though she were tied down. No more of this useless self-pity. It couldn’t end like this, she wouldn’t let it. This tent was full of all manner of odds and ends. There has to be something useful.

Unfortunately, all Scabior’s bowls and plates, covered in moldy food, were made of tin. No breaking those apart. And no cutlery, either. Hermione’s eyes floated to the chairs. All made of wood. And none of them looked particularly sturdy. Whisking the blankets off the cot she lay them over the chair Scabior had been in, the one where he’d forced her to sit on his lap. Might as well break this one.

It seemed the only way to be heard over the silencing charm was with a spell, perhaps some deviant of _sonorous,_ so it seemed unlikely anyone would hear the cracking wood. Selecting a chest that seemed hefty and yet light enough for her to pick up Hermione gripped the rings on either side and lifted. Gods, it was heavy. Awkwardly struggling with it she shuffled over to the blanketed chair, heaved it high as her muscles would allow, then released it, stepping away quickly. It had the desired effect. The chair buckled and split beneath it. Shoving the chest aside Hermione removed the covers. Sifting over the mess of wood she found the largest chunk. Like a bat she held it up, at the ready, just beside the entrance. The next person to come in would get a nasty surprise.

 

Excitement faded as minutes passed and Hermione let the club rest against her shoulder. Likely it would be hours before anyone entered. A thought occurred to her then. This was Scabior’s tent, but he apparently hadn’t been here all night. So was he sleeping somewhere else or off ‘earning’ his living as a snatcher?

_Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Hopefully, he’s gone and he’ll stay gone and we’ll finally escape._

Boredom soon threatened to drive her mad. She had to stay alert. Needed something to think about while waiting. Despite her disgust at the prospect, her curiosity wouldn’t let the encounter with Scabior go. In a few minutes he’d revealed a great deal of his personality to her. What, exactly had she learned about him, then?

_Fact: He defended himself when I accused him of being pathetic._

_Fact: He had a discussion with me rather than leaving or punishing me for giving him lip._

_Fact: When I brought up how horrible the things he does are, he brought Umbridge up._

_Possibility: Scabior mentioned Umbridge and her horrific actions to make himself seem better by comparison._

_Fact: He felt the need to justify his behavior, hinting that his life has been difficult and thus using that as an excuse for why he is the way he is._

All rather peculiar. Unexpected. Throughout most of the conversation Scabior had made excuses for himself. Almost as if he wanted to justify himself to her. Was that too far-fetched? What was he after, exactly? The way he’d behaved while she was under the Imperius curse only perplexed Hermione further. How much farther would he have gone if that other snatcher hadn’t interrupted? She didn’t want to know. And she would not dwell on it any longer. There were more productive things to spend her mental energy on.

_Accio: Summoning charm._

_Alohomora: Unlocking charm._

_Expecto Patronum: Also known as Patronus charm, in which the caster calls forth an individualised mass of energy, which takes on the shape of an animal specific to the user to repel dementors._

_Expelliarmus..._

 

\---

 

Some hours later someone finally lifted the tent flap and came inside. The next second the man was on the floor, knocked over by the mighty blow Hermione struck him. For good measure she hit him two more times across the skull, drawing blood. It made her a little sick but she pushed past the feeling. And there, in his hand, his wand. Prying the stick of wood loose Hermione flicked it around, feeling magic channel through it. First she cast a sleeping charm over the snatcher, assuring he’d remain unconscious. But seeing the blood ooze from his head made her uncomfortable, even guilty. Leaving someone wounded like that just didn’t sit well with her. Before thinking better of it she cast a healing charm. Knitting together, skin closed over the split her makeshift club left. Bumps and bruises, still slight and not fully formed, disappeared without a trace.

 _Deep breaths, Hermione_.

Magic flowed from the wand, directed by her own power and knowledge. Holding it in her hand was a relief, although it belonged to a snatcher. Now she could make some progress. Next thing to do would be removing the silencing charm. Upon doing this she noted there wasn’t much going on outside, only quiet voices and a crackling fire. Hermione needed to get to Harry and Ron, then, if possible, locate their possessions; their wands and her purse. Likely her purse was ransacked of all useful items but if she could get it back that would at least be something. Just as she prepared to cast a spell of finding a crackling fizzle distracted her.

_What’s …?_

“Hello miss Granger!”

Hermione nearly forgot to keep her voice down in her excitement. “Dobby! What are you doing here? How did you find us?”

“Dobby has just been to Malfoy Manor to rescue Ms. Lovegood, Mr. Ollivander and Griphook. He saw a snatcher bring Harry to Draco. Draco said it must not be Harry Potter. Dobby took care of the snatcher and Harry Potter disarmed Draco. Then master Harry told me where to find you and Ron.”

Hermione hardly dared believe it. “So they’re safe?”

“Yes, ma’am.” One of his gangly hands reached inside the sackcloth he wore as a shirt. “Dobby also found these and thought you might be missing them.”

Disbelief and joy fluttered inside her. She couldn’t help but jump around a little in excitement. Her purse and wand were clutched in his tiny hand. “Oh Dobby, you are a most extraordinary elf!” Discarding the snatcher’s wand into her bag as she took her own into her hand. It hummed at her touch, apparently happy to be reunited with its proper owner.

“If miss Granger will take Dobby’s hand we can be off.”

For the first time in quite a long while the tears Hermione cried were joyful. “Let’s be off then.” She took hold of his bony, pale palm. There was a pull against her body as the apparition began. A split second before they were transported Hermione felt a prickle against her nape as the hairs stood on end, warning of something. There, just entering the tent, was Scabior. Hermione savored to stupefied confusion mangling his face before he, the tent, the whole damned camp, disappeared.


	3. What Comes Next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions and conclusions. Endings can be difficult. And, of course, most endings mean new beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a really short one, I know. But I just needed to wrap things up with this part because the next part will take place years and years later. Hopefully this chapter is okay. If anyone is still reading please let me know what you think! The only reason I came around and finished this chapter was because someone commented on it, which encouraged me to return to the story. Comments and kudos really mean a lot, so if you like it let me know (:

Hermione collapsed onto sand, sickness crashing down on her in unforgiving waves. Apparating with someone else was always uncomfortable but when you were already in a weakened state it was practically torturous. Eyes squeezed tightly shut she buried her hands deep in the soft sand, focusing on its coarseness.

 

"Is Miss Granger alright?"

 

An uninterpretable grunt was all she could manage. But the sickness was fading. Waves slid and crashed over sand and rocks nearby, soothing her nerves. Never had anything sounded so beautiful as the tempestuous ocean did right then. Cautious Hermione opened her lids. "Where are we?" she inquired of Dobby.

 

"We are at the Weasley's. That is to say, Bill and Fleur Wesley's cottage. Everyone is inside. Do you feel well enough to walk now?"

 

"Yes. Yes I think so." Shaking and weary Hermione raised herself slowly upwards. Dobby, small as he was, did his best to help push her to a standing position. "Thank you, Dobby. We would have... I mean without you... I could never thank you enough."

 

"Hermione is too kind..."

 

"No," she interrupted gently. She looked down to face him, meeting his bulbous eyes with determined sincerity. "not too kind. You saved us, Dobby. From a terrible fate. I won't let you or anyone else belittle that fact." The elf's lower lip quivered terribly. Suddenly he burst into tears of gratitude and collapsed to grovel at her feet. "Now now, none of that," she chided tenderly as she lifted the hysterical elf up, cradling him in her arms. When they neared the cottage Dobby's hysterics alerted those inside to their presence. Fleur was the first to come outside. To Hermione's utter surprise Fleur flung her arms around her, pulling her into a tight squeeze, though she was careful not to squish Dobby.

 

"I am so relieved to see you unahrmed!" Releasing the younger girl she held her at arm's length, looking her over with all the concern of a mother hen.

 

 _Not unlike Molly_ , Hermione mused.

 

"What ave those _snatchers_ done to you? Ron wouldn't tell us. Ee was... Ee was so upset, Ermione."

 

Despite everything, all the horrifying events of the last few days, Hermione couldn't help but bristle a little as Fleur mispronounced her name. But the feeling dissipated even faster than it had sprung up. How could _Ermione_ be angry with someone so worried for her sake? "I'm alright. Really, I am. To be honest I'm more worried about..." Half-way through speaking Hermione heard the fervent whispering coming from the figures standing just inside the house. Harry seemed intent on convincing Ron to go out to meet her, even going so far as to try shoving him a bit to get him moving. But Ron refused to budge. Sorrow, regret and guilt contorted his features as he realized she was looking at him. Frozen in her stare Ron became utterly still. Gingerly setting Dobby down Hermione strode forward; slow, deliberate, approaching her best friend of nearly seven years as if he were a skittish animal. Harry looked on awkwardly for a moment but soon Fleur led he and Dobby inside, sensing Hermione and Ron's need for privacy. Awkwardness and guilt mingled in the wrinkles of Ron's brow, his hunched shoulders, the shuffle of his feet.

 

Ron was first to break the silence. "I'm..." His voice faltered at the words he was trying to force out. Watering eyes belied the struggle underneath. To Hermione's complete surprise, he began openly weeping. Swallowing his own sobs Ron managed to speak the words he desperately wanted to say. " _I'm so sorry_. It was all my fault."

 

"Ron," she whispered, tentative and uncertain. "Ron he... he didn't... _do_ what you think he did. Scabior only, um, pretended to." A blank stare was his only response. Placing a hand delicately atop his shoulder she looked resolutely into his eyes, trying to drive her words home. "Nothing happened to me, Ron. I'm fine. He didn't really do anything. It was all an act." Torn between his desire to believe and his own doubt he gazed intently into her eyes. Then utter relief flooded him. It went to Hermione's heart. A smile even lit up his face. Then it spread, dancing in his eyes, lumbering clumsily to the corners of his mouth. It was the sort of smile that could make her fall in love with him all over again. Wrapping big arms around her he barreled her into a bear hug. It was warm. Comforting. So very Ron. Arms tucked against her chest Hermione simply rested in his embrace. Sublime comfort warmed and calmed her. Though she knew there were troubles aplenty ahead she let herself enjoy this brief respite. There would be time for worry later.

 

\---

 

Harry loved Hermione and Ron. Of course he did. Of course he was happy for them. But it was painful to see the joy they had in each other. It made him miss Ginny all the more. Hermione and Ron holding hands, Hermione and Ron standing close to one another, Hermione and Ron looking at one another with adoration. Guilt crept trough Harry at his own jealousy. He was glad they were happy, really he was. And yet how could he see them being... acting... like _that_ and not feel that sinking pit at his stomach for not having Ginny here with him too? Often he'd wondered if he'd made a mistake not bringing her with. Ultimately he knew it was safer for her at Hogwarts but they could have used her help. And he knew there would be hell and a half to pay when he came face to face with her again. She wouldn't have liked being left out of their little suicidal threesome. The time for lamenting decisions was over. He couldn't keep doing this. Not when here were so many more difficult choices ahead. If he was ever to see his Ginny again, if she even was still his Ginny, they had to destroy the other horcruxes.

 

\---

 

It was cold down among the rocks. Pieces of debris from the bridge littered the area all round him, that and the cold, dead bodies of his comrades in arms. Three bodies broken his fall. Well, they had been living bodies before the fall. But that mattered little to him. His wand was intact and he'd been able to mend most of the foul wounds the plummet had brought on his body. He knew some simple healing spells but didn't dare meddle too much in things he didn't understand. He'd have to leave the rest for someone else. Groans of pain echoed through the canyon as the cacophonies of war echoed above. Others had apparently survived too. Some cast levitation spells, heading back into the frey. Others began laboriously climbing out. Scarbior, however, did not. Scabior was a man who trusted his gut, and right now his gut told him if he went back up there he'd be on the losing side of things. So he waited until everyone still alive had left or finished their dying. Then he stood. It wasn't easy, with his limbs so weak, the ground, the corpses beneath him so uneven. But he did it. Because he was a survivor, if nothing else. Opportunistic. And right now there were no opportunities offering him a way to his ends. Wand in hand, staying low, he crept away, farther and farther until the sounds, the screams and shouts, the cries and wails, died off. A few grunts of labor and pain slipped now and again but no one was around to hear them. If he was lucky, and somehow he usually was, Penelope, or rather Hermione, would survive. She'd survive and there would be another chance to once again bring her into his clutches. But he would think on that more later. Right now his business was getting to someone who could heal him up. Help him hide. And he would have to wait. A very long time, most likely. People did not easily come down from the highs of a war, from the fear, the mistrust, the alertness. Mental wounds like that took a long time to heal, and even then the scars remained, reminding you of that more difficult time. But that was just fine with Scabior. Though his gut had little to say about it his mind firmly believed Hermione would survive. And opportunity would come again. Some day. Reaching the edge of the forest he cast a final glance back at Hogwarts Castle before limping away into the woods, swallowed by the night.

 

\---

 

It was a strange feeling, to have it all be over. Hermione had dreamt of this moment for so long, clawed tooth and nail against impossible odds to bring it to pass. Now it was all over. And they'd survived. Not everyone had. There were so many dead. Casualties of war, they were called. But that felt wrong. So utterly wrong. There was nothing casual about death, no matter that it was a part of life. But the pain would dissipate. Never disappear, of course, not completely. But they would learn to live with it. She and Ron and Harry, Ginny and Neville, the Weasley's, everyone. How strange to have joy and pain mix inside of her, to swirl and fight for attention within her heart and mind. This was a time of beginnings and endings, pain and loss, joy and triumph, despair and hope. Breathing deeply Hermione closed her eyes, focusing on the weight of Ron's head on her shoulder, the cadence of his snores, the feeling of his hand holding hers, tightly gripping it even as he slept. There were more troubles ahead. But they would face them together, as they always had. She, Ron, Harry, and Ginny too. They would face the trials ahead and they would persevere. They would thrive. And they would live the rest of their lives in a world free of Voldemort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurr durr it's the name of the stoooryyyyy  
> :p  
> Hope you liked it. The next chapter should be way longer.  
> Also I've seen so much Ron bashing in fics and I'm not having it. You're gonna see Ron be the matured, wonderful and loving husband he would have been if the books had continued! (don't talk to me about Cursed Child, we don't talk about that in this household)

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on having more chapters. I have a fic from a totally different fandom I'm still working on but I'm struggling with that whereas this story flowed easily.


End file.
